Persona (H)
by Proteus Wei
Summary: Destiny had other plans for Harry Potter after the Department of Mysteries. A deal was struck as Harry was still reeling, a power made his for a quest he was in no way prepared for. People are going missing, crimes committed in ways the Wizarding World had never before comprehended, and an evil far more sinister than words could describe has set its sights on time itself...
1. Chapter 1

...

**_[Date: 18/07/1996]_**

**_Daytime_**

The first (and last) battle of the Second Wizarding War was an exam day. An agitated and apprehensive air having settled upon not just Hogwarts castle, but the entire nation it settled itself within. Most having their own reasons to dismiss or explain away the complete and abstract sense of unease, whilst others simply could not shake the feeling that something was wrong...

And something was about to happen...

In a wand shop in Diagon Alley, a man found his entire collection sprawled across his floor after crashing into his ladder hard enough to shake the shelves.

"So many fallen wands, can only be an omen of sorts..."

Further down the alley, a hooked nosed goblin scowled as he rang a bell only his kind could hear. Biting back the sneer as the lumbering guards at the door responded and strode towards the loud and insufferable humans on the other side of his desk...

Shivering in a cave not far from the Highlands town of Hogsmeade, a grubby (yet still high spirited) half-giant tended to the whining and barks of his similarly large hound,

"Yer alright, Fang. Yer alright."

A cracked vial met the black, scrutinising gaze of the disapproving potions master. Biting back bafflement and uneasiness as he restrained himself from picking up the item itself to take a closer look. For he did not need that observation to know a dark omen where one sat...

Wheezing in laughter before falling deathly silent, the man in the patchwork suit unintentionally ignored his shaggy, dark haired lifelong friend as he felt a... shift within the instincts he very much ignored from his other half.

A disgruntled barmaid hid her irritation behind a dazzling grin and the fluttering of eyebrows. Ignoring the shaky and disturbing feeling in her stomach and the shiver running down her spine. She passed off as much as she feasibly could on the part-timers so she could flee to the wine cellar and catch her breath...

In a Ministry corridor, black and dreary and surrounded by men and women many years their senior, a young lady scowled as she hurled a folder of parchment in the apathetic face of the red head before her and stormed off after spinning on her heels. Eyes prickling with tears and filled with an irresistible desire to go home...

Elsewhere in the Minsitry, a young woman shook her head and subsequently her hair transitioned from a vibrant, nigh-flourescent shade of yellow to a gentle periwinkle. In the privacy of the empty bathroom she allowed a little of her monumental fatigue to settle upon her face for the briefest of moments before the spunky, junior Auror returned to the world with her bubblegum pink mohawk...

A sherry bottle clutched between her knees and a very full glass teetering in spindly, shaky hands, the dishevelled woman sat rocking back and forth on the carpeted floor before her roaring fireplace. Locked away in a tower in Hogwarts castle, she was wondering if anyone would heed her warning or if they would fall like all the others who hadn't...

In an armchair under the warm, golden rays of the afternoon sun, a blonde woman thanked her House Elf for settling a blanket across her lap and returned to her act of reading a novel. Ignoring the ominous aura at her back, emanating from further into the Manor. Wondering if today would be the day she regained her courage...

And, in a room displaced from the very concepts of dream, time and reality, a man placed the cerulean quill in his hand back in its inkwell,

"It would appear, my dear, that we should be expecting company in the near future."

A woman, startlingly beautiful and draped in the same twilight colours of the room offered the stout, balding individual a gentle nod and a few soft words in reply. He blessed her with a grin that stretched from ear to ear.

In a moment, seemingly unknown to all, everything stopped. The world collectively held its breath and felt a cold, foreign sensation settle upon their shoulders for an instant longer than any was comfortable with. A clench of the heart coming to all as everything seemed to freeze in a startling sense of morbid anticipation...

Things only falling back into motion, like the collapse of a house of cards, when Harry Potter (the Boy Who Lived) staggered and fell to his knees with his hand firmly clasped over the lightning bolt scar that dominated his forehead. Curled over in agonising pain that his students and teachers (those who deigned to view him in this state) surmised was likely stress related.

But it was in fact a call, a call to action from the boys deadliest foe. A call that, when he answered it, would mark the first step towards the rest of his life.

* * *

**_[Date: 18/07/1996]_**

**_After-School_**

Voldemort's downfall came from frequent and, perhaps in hindsight, ludicrous underestimation of his enemy.

A slip of a boy, narrow in a way that bordered on unhealthy, hear like a blackened nest of a bird and green eyes so deep and rich in colour they were more like sharp jewels than human eyes.

Those eyes had never left him, not when they'd found him in the Atrium with him. Cutting the same malevolent, intimidating figure that had caused lesser men to flee or beg, taunting him for his inability to murder in turn the woman who had killed one of his own.

He'd lashed out, wand ablaze with spell on his lips, a suicide run. He'd very much intended on humouring the fool, perhaps tearing into him only when his spells and stamina was exhausted.

_'Only when he could see the collossal gap in our power...'_ That was the Dark Lords thoughts, _'That is when I will kill him...'_

That was the issue. The problem his mentality, a sense of pride and accomplishment he had grown used to in years of victory upon victory.

This child was the only being who had ever, truly, levied him any substantial defeat. Though he had done so in such ridiculous scenarios, and though he had been beaten back by and defied by the likes of Dumbledore and his pests in the past, he had never truly lost to any of them. Only this scrawny child who came at him in his school uniform.

Perhaps, if he had taken the enraged teen seriously, approached what would be their final duel with anything close to a modicum of dignity or ruthlessness, he could have ended his foe then and there.

But his taunts lead to him immediately on the back foot, immediately on the defensive, and Lord Voldemort would never recover the advantage...

_'Impossible!'_ He'd thought over and over as his adversary's offensive line encroached upon him, closer and closer. Every spell sending earth-shattering tremours throughout his body and their surrounding making it near impossible to even stand let along block or deflect the juvenile spells he was being assaulted by.

And that is what they were, **_juvenile_**.

_Diffindo, Bombarda, Expelliarmus, Stupefy?!_ Had they not punched holes the size of elephants in brick walls, cleaved through metal, had his shield not sent his own dark and vicious curses ricochetting off into the ether, Voldemort would have been offended at how unprepared his foe was when facing him. No Unforgivables, no fancy rituals or esoteric summons, just spells that could be learned from standard Hogwarts textbooks. It was, on Potter's end of the duel, nothing short of an embarrassment.

But how could he be. For the only reason he was still standing was because of his choice of charms and curses.

Potter was many decades his junior and a child of the Light through and through, truly one of Dumbledore's men. What he lacked in experience and skill he was substituting in rage, adrenaline and simple, pure and RAW power. The spells he flung... simply could not do what he was making them. They were not designed to perform to such a high calibre and deadly degree, yet...

He lost to them. He lost to those spells one would expect from a Hogwarts fifth year.

And, in a sea of curses, vitriol and unrestrained tears and profanity, that fifth year executed the most dangerous Dark Lord of all time to the wide eyed and speechless crowd that had formed.

Cementing his place in history, as one of the greatest and most powerful wizards ever born...

* * *

**_[Date: 18/07/1996]_**

**_Evening_**

Tell tale pops of Apparition hit his ears from his spot in the stands, nestled (unseen) on the stone pews as the brats finished off the Death Eaters just as their would-be-saviours arrived to do the same. Slack jawed and incredulous in the face of their charges miraculous victory.

He resisted the urge to give them a hand, the children that is, paranoid even though it wouldn't give him away. He'd underestimated a group like that one many years prior and had barely managed to live through it; their skill and tenacity nothing short of commendable.

And seeing as, with their victory (and that of their 'leader' in the other room) everything was finally in place, he felt no need to hang onto bitterness or envy.

"With this victory, the boy is more that qualified." An obvious thought that echoed through his mind as he adjusted his cloak and leaned further into the shade, "He will reach out to the boy and, at last, we can begin again."

He grinned. Not the practiced one for the press and the fools in charge. Not the malicious smirk he hid behind his mask. A grin, a grin of glee and a grin of relief.

"Hmm. For a servant to rejoice the defeat of their master... scandalous."

Though in his head, that voice was not his own,

"Heh, master?! Riddle was a tool of my fathers long before he was one of mine, never a master." Though he did not speak, he did deign to scoff aloud at such a preposterous statement, "A pawn in a game far larger than his dreams could have designed."

On his feet. the room had emptied, but it would soon be crawling with Aurors.

He did not fear them, but he had a part to play and a place to be.

Everything lay in the boys hands now,

"With that bastard half-blood finally out of the way, Potter can attain his destiny." A distant doorknob rattled as he swept out of the room, "Everything has finally fallen into place."

An item was returned to his pocket as he made his escape. Long strides where the heels of his boots clicked sharply against the black marble floors. A single card, black as coal and emblazoned with the caricature of a jester, white and decked in reds, yellows and blues. The fool grinned up at him from his place on the paper and his owner smiled back, a smile filled with teeth and a greedy, ravenous ecstasy.

"Shall we play, Potter?"

* * *

_Presenting:_

**Persona [**_H_**]**

**"The Rewriters of Fate."**


	2. Chapter 2

**Persona [**_H_**]**

**"The Rewriters of Fate."**

**...**

**[18/08/1996]**

**Morning**

Honestly, Harry's only point of reference to compare the the feeling to had to be the Imperius curse. Referring to the mad compulsion to enter the cupboard under the stairs he had been harbouring for the past ten days...

Reminiscent of the soothing, seductive voice that lodged itself in the back of his mind and egged him on towards the desired actions of the castor. It was not a 'like-to-like' scenario, but the scrawny sixteen year old (sat upright in his narrow bed in Number Four's smallest bedroom) had nothing else he could liken the... song?

It was a melody, present in his mind rather than drifting in through his ears. Wordless but definitively human, feminine and high. It was, quite honestly, the most beautiful song he'd even known; a soulful aria that drifted through the household like a gentle breeze.

It burrowed under his skin and required him to get up, walk down those tight, creaky stairs and slip into the place the Dursley's had dubbed his 'room' all those years ago.

It hadn't developed gradually, the desire had set itself upon him with the subtlety of a Bludger blow. Bowling him over with a vicious NEED to unlock the abysmal place and see what was within.

Had Harry not found the sensation so wholly alien and unnatural, he'd have already been in there. His own recognition of the oddity of the song and feeling, even as a young man who could literally bend and defy the laws of physics with the wave of a stick, was the only factor that halted him from... well... doing as he was told.

He turned a weary eye over to the small desk (a thin, slight table that looked like a strong gust would have it fall to pieces) physically drooping under the weight of his books, birthday presents and Hedwigs cage. The cage occupied fairly recently, the beautiful snowy owl having slunk in just prior to her companions awakening; the sun firmly climbing over the horizon and drenching the world in orange and yellow.

Sweaty, annoyed and still very much tired (the song present even as he went for rest, leading to nights of sheer restlessness) Harry DID get to his feet. Slipping out of the room with nary a creak from the door-frames and floorboards, quietly going about some of his morning ablutions (quietly cursing about the coldness of the shower) before slinking into his room in time to miss Vernon rising to do the same.

Whilst his grunting and groaning Uncle stomped (in comparison to his nephew) through his early morning routine, Harry slipped into the least baggy of his threadbare collection of hand-me-downs and slotted his feet into a pair of too small trainers. Slipping downstairs and sliding himself an apple and a slice of bread for a 'hearty' breakfast.

He didn't even allow himself a glance at the cupboard under the stairs, just leaving the building, well into a comfortable job by the end of the street and ready to keep it up for the next few hours.

**...**

**[18/08/1996]**

**Daytime**

He found it nothing short of depressing that the nicest, and most comfortable, articles of clothing he owned really were his school uniform. A standard shirt and trousers, fairly smart and the only items of clothing he had (though, Harry now realised his dress robes from the Yule Ball fit this criteria) that fit him.

He re-opened his school trunk behind him by swivelling around and launching a sharp kick to the leathery case, the item snapping open rather forcefully. Harry wincing briefly at the sharp **_'BANG!'_** on the lid hitting the wall, before wondering (with a weary curiosity) if his dress robes were appropriate attire for a will reading...

The constant noise in his ears only seemed to vanish in these moments, when the cold squirming feelings under his skin arrived and he remembered a man he thought of as a father lifelessly falling back into oblivion...

Back to reality, he couldn't wear the robes.

He was in the 'Muggle World' right now so, for his own sake, he couldn't wear his robes. Though the image of Aunt Petunia's face, puce with rage and lips pursed so aggressively it looked like she'd sucked on a lemon, when angry was so fascinating a sight that Harry was almost tempted to throw them on just to spite the nasty... woman...

Harry sighed, back in his room staring down at the clothes he'd set out on his bed just before he'd gone out earlier that day. Deciding against being deliberately antagonistic, he stuffed his spare robes (a set of Hogwarts robes that, miraculously, had not had the Gryffindor insignia and colours sewn onto them by the enthusiastic school house elves) into his book bag to change into later and blitzed through getting changed. Images of a shaggy haired loved one falling into the grey shifting veil playing over and over again.

A leftover from the previous summer,

It almost felt like a dream, or some sort of past life. So much further away than twelve measly months ago.

The Knight Bus appeared on the road before him with a usual gunshot bang, the Boy Who Lived entering with a wave, a flash of silver Sickles and a request for the Alley. He settled into a rickety seat with the copy of the Prophet he hand under his arm. His eyes not leaving the article on the front page:

**_Former Under-Secretary and Interim-Hogwarts Headmistress Dolores Umbridge still missing_****_. _**An article that had been a cathartic front page headline two weeks prior, when the Daily Prophet finally realised that that vile toad hadn't come back from the Forbidden Forest.

The part he played in her... 'disappearance' was something a little part of Harry felt guilt over. But with everything else that had occurred between then and now, it honestly (and quite callous of him to think such a thing) was the furthest thing from his mind. Harry baring it only the briefest whilst his mind wandered onto other things, such as whether he should stop by St Mungos after Gringotts to get himself tested for some sort of curse or compulsion charm.

Perhaps he'd been hit with something at the Ministry? No.

He'd rather not think about the Ministry. Simply allowing himself to be thrown around the Knight's Bus.

He recognised Griphook as soon as he arrived, making a beeline for the only goblin he knew (even if his line was two wizards longer than the tempting one to the left) and was greeted by the baring of yellowing dagger-like fangs after a cordial good morning.

That, via context, he assumed was a smile.

Had he been a REAL Gryffindor, he'd have had the bravery to tell Griphook to either work on it or never do it again.

But he just allowed himself to be lead along to one of the back rooms of the bank in a daze, sat himself numbly in a room filled with the sympathetic and the sniffling and nodded along blankly as a ghostly visage of his beloved godfather (with remarkably few exceptions) left him with all of his worldly possessions...

**...**

**[18/08/1996]**

**Evening**

His eyes fell upon it on exiting the kitchen, hands damp from washing the dishes and the sun having long since set. The sky a dark blue with some glittering star peeking out from behind the clouds as the gibbous moon slowly slid up and along the night sky.

A pang in his stomach and chest,

He wasn't there right now, he was already in there, much smaller and far more scared than. Every footstep above him casting down dust and shaking his world, little squeaks and cries ripping involuntarily from his throat as he sat huddled into the corner. Knees up to his chin and surrounded by black.

In that brief moment, distracted and in his memories, he found his hand on the knob. Hand flying away as if the cheap metal were molten and the song SHOUTING in his ears.

He ran, upstairs with his heart in his throat, certain to lock the door to his room before burrowing into his sheets (heart in his throat). The music quieted down to a more soothing, almost sympathetic tone. He was gently lulled to a peaceful slumber for the first time in weeks.

**...**

* * *

**...**

**[19/08/1996]**

**Morning**

Exactly a month prior to Hermione's birthday, Harry's first thought on blearily returning to the world at six a.m. on that morning of the nineteenth. That impulse to fly downstairs and wrench the door open secondary for only the briefest moment.

He ignored the cupboard again when he left for a jog, but that was mostly because he was rushing out of the door with the money he'd swiped from under Dudley's floorboards... not at all because he was afraid to look at it...

**...**

**[19/08/1996]**

**Afternoon**

He came back from his job to an irritated Aunt Petunia thrusting the house phone at him with a grateful voicemail message from Hermione for the 'Pocket Observatory' he'd gotten her. Gushing at volume for a solid five minutes that warmed his heart and made him cringe.

He settled down the phone and had his Aunt's vitriol to deal with for the rest of the afternoon...

**...**

**[19/08/1996]**

**Evening**

When he gave in, the night was warm.

He gave in because, honestly, if the Weasley's weren't coming for him this year AND he had somewhere just as safe to go... why would he stay?

Despite the niggling feelings of guilt and sorrow at the circumstances of his new home (and the mishmash of other dark emotions afforded to going to Grimmauld Place and knowing Sirius wouldn't be there to greet him) he did see lumbering about that lonely house as far better than dealing with the scowls and passive aggression of the Dursley family.

"My, that took you a while!" A high, somewhat nasally, man's voice reached Harry's ears as he numbly

He just... blinked...

The door he'd entered was to the dark, cobweb infested cupboard. The room he entered was anything but...

It was a parlour, a huge one at that, the rooms walls almost far enough away that Harry couldn't see them. The distant walls and corners shrouded in shadow from the dim light of the twilight beyond to east facing window and the flickering sources of light.

Window, he'd noticed it in periphery and yanked his head over to it.

That view, was NOT of Privet Drive.

Apparation? He didn't know, he'd never done it before. But it was most definitely not the swirling feeling of the Floo or a Portkey.

He snapped around and paused, before nearly jogging back to the door way (mind spinning),

"Wai-" A voice behind him briefly piping up, stopped by a hearty chuckle and an interruption,

"Allow him a moment, my dear." That nasally voice again, interrupting the feminine cry Harry distractedly thought he'd get back to...

He popped his head out from the 'cupboard'. The prim and proper Number Four still there on the other side of the door, leaving him to look about, knocking on walls and ensuring that he'd actually travelled somewhere else rather than the place having been inserted into his old childhood 'room'.

He slipped back in sometime later with a stuttering question on his lips,

"Wh-what is this place? And who are you?"

A cheery chuckle greeted his words, truly drawing Harry's attention to the man at the centre of the room.

Good lord... he was certain he wasn't entirely human.

An absurdly long nose. Sharply pointed ears and bulging, bloodshot eyes, all on a clearly narrow and tall man hunched quite heavily over his colossal desk. Those black eyes were on him with a mirthful yet expectant edge, one of his two incredibly bushy eyebrows raised (honestly giving Harry the impression of a fuzzy black caterpillar).

Behind a mahogany desk, a sheet of parchment before him with a cerulean blue quill in his long, bony fingers, the man gave an odd mockery of a bow (in his seated position)

"Ha, the latest in a long line of Fools. Welcome to my Velvet Room!" That nasally voice again,

He was confused, maybe even a little annoyed. The blue fire, the beyond the pale view outside, and the strange presence and apprehension that flowed from the man across the room. Combined with the vibe he got from the word 'Fools' and it was too much... he just couldn't...

Harry spun on his heels and strode out, kicking the door closed behind him (this time just ignoring the cry to stop from the woman he hadn't actually seen).

He stormed upstairs, and threw the last of his things into his trunk after blasting off a letter to Dumbledore about the encounter.

He was out of the house and back in the purple triple-decker (for the third time that day) in less than five minutes. The song no longer ricochetting around his head as he allowed himself to be thrown around the interior on his way away from the Dursley household.

NOPE.

**...**


End file.
